


blood in the cut

by nilchance



Series: ain't this the life [26]
Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Fellcest - Freeform, Impact Play, M/M, Underfell Papyrus (Undertale), Underfell Sans (Undertale), eventual spicykustard, offscreen kustard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-09
Updated: 2019-06-09
Packaged: 2020-04-23 16:44:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19154998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nilchance/pseuds/nilchance
Summary: Red is a paragon of mental health.





	blood in the cut

**Author's Note:**

> detailed content warnings in the endnotes

Edge doesn’t wake Red before he goes for his morning run. That’s his first mistake.

It’s late, going on 10 already, but Red’s actually asleep for what’s probably the first time in days. Edge doesn’t have work at the embassy today; Asgore is spending the day with Frisk, doing whatever fathers do. (Not having one himself, Edge is foggy on the details.) He doesn’t have to be anywhere until his appointment with Sans in the afternoon. He can afford to be indulgent this once.

He dresses quietly and leaves Red sleeping sprawled across his sheets, pausing to rub Doomfanger’s ears where he’s curled up near Red’s ankle. For all that Doomfanger loves Edge best, he tends to stay near Red when he’s having one of his bad days. It provides a convenient feline barometer for how worried Edge should be. At the moment, it’s not dire. If he finds Doomfanger draped across Red’s lap or chest, _then_ he’ll be alarmed.

The stray cat is on the back of the couch, greeting him with a trill. He stops to scritch her, crooning softly that she’s a very good girl, yes she is, yes she most certainly is, because there’s no one to catch him at it, and then puts his running shoes on and leaves.

Edge never had the luxury of being able to take a peaceful run before he got to this universe and Undyne introduced him to the practice as a way of working off his restlessness. It’s mid-morning on a Saturday, so the streets are not as empty as when he runs before work some mornings. There are monsters and humans out living their lives. A few of them wave at him as he passes. It’s a puzzling phenomenon, and it takes him a moment to raise an acknowledging hand, mostly in the hopes that they’ll remember that he’s terrifying and stop.

Undyne listens to music when she runs, anime theme songs and entrance themes for professional wrestlers, but the thought of cutting off his hearing when he’s in the open makes him twitchy and would probably send Red into an apoplectic fit. Instead he pushes himself hard enough that on the best runs, his mind goes blessedly blank of anything but the impact of his feet on the concrete and the beating of his soul.

That blankness doesn’t come today. His mind keeps coming back to Sans again and again, touching on the memory of Sans defiantly pulling the collar from his inventory and his possessive reaction, no less feral and sharp than Red’s would have been, when Edge asked to hold it. Edge thinks of the trust with which Sans offered his wrist, the warmth of his regard as he watched Edge fasten the collar, his utter lack of fear. 

And then, as if following the steps of a dance, his thoughts wander to the way Sans looked at their kitchen table, his eyelights soft with pleasure as he ate the food that Edge made for him. It had taken every bit of control Edge had not to lay hands on him, to claim him with a touch as he would Red. Sans has accepted his protection, his devotion, but Sans isn’t his to touch.

( _Yet_ , whispers some dark part of Edge’s soul, which he is doing his best to ignore.)

(The flirting, though. The suggestive remarks. The way Sans didn’t try to stifle any of his moans as Red fucked him, as if he didn’t care if Edge heard.)

From the second that Edge saw Sans’s throat was bare, he’s wanted this. He’s not used to actually getting what he wants. It tempts him to hope for other things, which is a dangerous notion. If he can have Sans in his collar, would it be so terrible to think that he could have Sans in his bed?

Perhaps not, but thinking with his dick would be a mistake. Sans is depending on him for healing and protection. It would be easy to make him think Edge expects him to pay for those things with his body. Considering what happened with Gaster, Edge can’t blame him for being wary about the cost of other people’s generosity.

No, Edge can be patient. Careful. He has to be.

Eventually, long before the end of his endurance, Edge circles back home. The first thing he sees as he comes in the door is that Red dragged himself out of bed. His brother is stretched out full length on the couch, staring at the ceiling and absently petting the cat that’s curled up on his chest. On the surface, he looks calmer than he has in days. It should be reassuring, but it sets off every internal alarm Edge has.

Edge closes the door and locks them in. When that’s done, he says, “Brother.”

Red doesn’t turn his head, only his eyes moving to look at Edge. His smile is almost sleepy. “What’s up, boss?”

“How bad is it?”

“Get off my back. I’m fine.” 

It’s the same thing he said the night before, after Sans went home. Like a fool, Edge believed him. He should’ve dealt with this yesterday instead of trusting that one rough blowjob was enough to patch the crumbling supports that keep Red together, but Red seemed stable and Edge hadn’t wanted the fight that would ensue from trying to force the issue.

Edge moves to the couch, standing over Red’s prone body. Red raises a brow and grins. The look in his eyes is a wasteland. Red’s far from fine.

“Don’t you gotta shower?” Red says into his silence. “You’re supposed to hang out with Sansy.”

So Edge is, depending on if he’s willing to turn his back on Red when he’s in this kind of mood. He has the feeling that that decision would have a body count. Edge’s trip back to their universe, the revelation about Sans and Papyrus’s childhood… Even on the best of days, Red doesn’t react well when something threatens the people he considers his. Edge may have promised Sans not to deal with Gaster for another three months, but Red said no such thing. His brother isn’t thinking straight. It would be very easy for him to decide to do something suicidally stupid.

That unnatural calm slipping a little, Red snaps, “Quit staring at me. I’m not gonna do a goddamn trick. Either say what’s on your mind or fuck off.”

There’s nothing else to be done for it. Unfortunate timing, but a LV flare-up rarely stops to consult one’s schedule to be sure it’s not disrupting anything. Edge needs to take care of this before it goes any further. Sans will understand.

(And if Edge feels a selfish, guilty pang of disappointment, he shoves it down deep.)

Without a word, Edge turns on his heel and leaves the living room. He doesn’t stop until he’s in his bedroom, closing the door behind him. He’s intimately familiar with the acoustics of the house and the best places to go if he needs a quiet moment away from the world to gather himself. It also means that he knows that the interior of his closet is the best place to make a discreet phone call. He’s not fool enough to think that Red doesn’t know about it, but he routinely sweeps the closet for bugs; even if he’s missed one, hopefully Doomfanger will keep Red on the couch and away from his laptop.

Without Red’s talent for gathering information, they wouldn’t have survived this long. That doesn’t mean it isn’t aggravating as fuck when he uses it against Edge.

Huddled among his clothes, Edge dials Sans’s phone number. He’s expecting to have to leave a message or at least wait while the phone rings a few dozen times, but Sans picks up after three rings and says, “Knock knock.”

Despite everything, Edge is tempted to smile. With a put-upon sigh, he asks, “Who’s there?”

“You don’t know who you’re calling? Weird.” Edge can hear Sans grinning. “So what’s up? Just couldn’t wait a couple hours to hear my great jokes?”

“I can’t come,” Edge says. There’s a moment of silence, and he rushes to fill it. “My brother isn’t doing well. We’ll reschedule. I’m sorry.”

“Dude, no, don’t apologize,” Sans says, the immediacy and certainty of that response reassuring. As with Red, there has never been a question in Sans’s mind that brothers take priority. “Anything I can do?”

No one has ever asked that before, including Sans himself. Mostly, people leave Edge to handle Red and step out of the range of the blast. Sans knows what this process entails and seems uneasy with it, but he still asks. Edge was expecting to have to reassure him, but no, there is only Sans offering help. Edge would love him for that if he didn’t already.

“Not at the moment,” Edge says. “I’ll call you. After.”

“Sure, if you get a minute,” Sans says, in a careless tone that means he’ll stay up all night worrying about them otherwise. “Uh, I’m not exactly sure what to say here, but… take care of yourself, okay?”

“I will. And him as well.”

“Yeah, I’m not worried about that part. You’ve got this.”

“Thank you,” Edge says, trying to put the wealth of everything he’s thanking Sans for into the words. _Thank you for loving my brother. Thank you for wearing my collar._

With a warmth in his voice that Edge feels in his soul, Sans says, “No problem, edgelord. Good luck.”

Sans hangs up, blessedly sparing Edge from having to find anything else to say. Edge puts the phone back in his pocket, takes a moment to brace himself, and returns to the living room. Red hasn’t moved from the couch, still running his hand down Doomfanger’s spine in long, meditative strokes, smoothing his fur down like a reverse mohawk. Edge can hear Fang purring from the kitchen doorway.

Red must see the warning in Edge’s expression. He tenses up, a subtle enough change that few people would notice. When he pauses in his petting, Doomfanger wriggles out from under his hand and jumps down off the couch, excusing himself. By now Fang can sense when things are about to get loud and unpleasant.

Red pushes himself up onto his elbows and demands, “What’s your problem?”

“Get up,” Edge says evenly. One of them has to stay under control. “Come to the bedroom. We’re not doing this on the couch.”

Red narrows his eyes. “I told you I’m fine.”

“You aren’t.”

“Fine enough. I got ways of managing.”

“I know your ways of managing. Which is it, then? Are you planning to drink until you black out or to kill someone?” Edge asks. “I’d like to know beforehand if I’m going to have to hide a body.”

“Like I need your help,” Red says. “Don’t you worry your pretty little head. I’m not gonna cause you any problems.”

“That isn’t my concern,” Edge says.

Red makes a dismissive gesture, as if it’s ridiculous that Edge should worry about him. “You don’t got time for this bullshit today.”

“You seem to have forgotten how this works,” Edge says. “I’m not asking.”

Red hisses out a breath through his teeth. Then he sits up, swinging his legs to the floor, and starts to get up. The fact that he doesn’t just take a shortcut and force Edge to choose between tracking him down and leaving him be says more than words. Part of him is begging to be caught.

Before he can walk away, Edge grabs him by the arm. That’s the moment he expects Red’s temper to snap, but Red only goes still. Then, very quietly, Red says, “I’m trying not to be an asshole, but I got limits. Don’t push me.”

Well, that’s more honesty than Edge was expecting. He holds on, weighing the odds that he’s going to get shanked for this, and then says, “I know you’ve been trying, and I appreciate that. That doesn’t mean that you can--”

Red barks a laugh. “Oh, you appreciate it. You get how fucked up that is, right?”

“Imagine. Something about our lives being fucked up,” Edge says.

Red turns on him, rage in his eyes. “I spent twenty-two years screwing you up, and now I give you fucking scraps and you’re _grateful_. That’s pathetic.”

“No, of course my being screwed up has nothing to do with the universe we came from and the people who tried to kill us on a daily basis,” Edge says. “You’re going to claim full credit for all my problems. And I suppose you’re also going to conveniently ignore the fact that you kept me alive--”

“You did that, not me,” Red says. “And hey, guess what? Turns out I didn’t need to try to carve the heart outta you because even when you’ve gone soft, you survived. All those times I hurt you were for nothing. Who knew?”

Edge considers his brother’s face, the rage turned inwards, and wonders how long this has been quietly brewing. Since Edge and Sans returned alive from their universe? Since Red first saw Sans and Papyrus together, their open affection, and wondered what they could have had if he’d made different choices?

Never mind that they might not have survived until they got to this universe if he had.

“But you forgive me,” Red says, his eyelights shining feverishly bright. “You always do no matter how bad I fuck up. Just can’t get you to cut your losses. Gotta admit, I’m too selfish to try real hard these days. So we’re good. We’re fine. Nothing to talk about. I’ll abide for another day or so.”

“No,” Edge says.

Red’s fingers curl into fists. In a tone that comes across more threat than promise, he snarls, “Goddamnit, Papyrus, I’m not gonna fuck this up for you!”

Still holding Red by the arm because he doesn’t trust him not to bolt, Edge goes to one knee so they’re at eye level. When he reaches for his collar, Red tenses and tries to pull back, but not with any real strength. If he wanted free, he could break Edge’s grip.

Edge hooks two fingers beneath Red’s collar. Red’s bones are warm beneath his touch, a little flushed by anger and panic. He can feel Red breathing faster than normal. Red’s eyes are like a wild animal’s. His instinct to lash out, to try to force Edge to do what Red thinks is best for him, is battling it out with how much he needs this.

“Let me remind you what this collar means, since your memory is clearly going in your old age,” Edge says. “I would die for you.”

“Don’t,” Red says, low and pained.

For the moment, Edge is going to ignore that. “Do you honestly think I’m going to forsake you for dinner and a movie, no matter how pleasant the company?”

Red scoffs. “Dinner and a movie. Do I need to draw you a fucking diagram so you can figure out what’s going on here?”

Edge stares at him, momentarily derailed. Did Sans tell Red something, or is Red just thinking with his dick? When Sans suggested their outing, Edge wondered...

That’s something to be considered later. At length. For the moment, Edge says, “Sans understands. I already called him.”

“Then call him back!” Red snaps. “I’m fucking fine!”

“It’s done, brother. You need--”

“Maybe what I need is for you to actually be happy,” Red says, saying the word _need_ like he’s twisting a knife. “Fuck knows I can’t give you that. So--”

Using his grip on Red’s collar, Edge drags him forward into a kiss. Red snarls and bites Edge’s tongue hard enough that he tastes blood, but he’s not fighting to pull away. When Edge drags his tongue over Red’s teeth again, Red opens to him. They share the copper taste of Edge’s blood.

“Fool,” Edge says against his mouth. “I _am_ thinking of myself. As if I could be happy without you.”

Red makes a small noise in his throat, the sound of something breaking. His resolve, perhaps, or Edge’s heart. Edge kisses him again, and he is not gentle. He claims Red’s mouth. When he tries to pull away, to keep talking, Red grabs hold of his shirt and drags him back, kissing him with desperation for all that he was telling Edge to leave him alone.

“I’m going to hurt you,” Edge says between kisses. Red shudders. “I’m going to enjoy it.”

It’s the truth. For all that he treasures the chance to be gentle for once, this is part of him too. He needs to hurt Red as much as Red needs to be hurt. LV is no small part of it, but seeing as Papyrus is a sadist too, it may just be ingrained in him. He wouldn’t be satisfied without knowing he can bring Red to his knees and make him beg.

Red is tense against him for another long moment, struggling against himself. Before he can put up one last ditch effort to take back control, Edge says, “Give me what I want, or use your safeword and we’ll try something else. Those are your options. There isn’t one where I leave you like this.”

Red drags in a shaky breath. “You stubborn asshole.”

“I can’t imagine where I learned that.” Edge strokes Red’s spine, feeling him tremble with pent-up violence. It must be exhausting, trying to remake himself in the image of this softer world. Edge digs his thumb into the magic between Red’s vertebrae, knowing it’s painful even before Red jerks against him, and says, “Whatever you’re holding back, I can take it. I want you to fight m--”

Only the fact that Edge has been dealing with Red’s penchant for fighting dirty for years keeps him from getting another crack in his orbital bone when Red tries to headbutt him. As soon as Edge jerks back, Red presses his advantage to go to knee him in the pelvis. Edge twists to one side and takes the hit in his femur instead, a spasm of pain that promises one hell of a bruise. 

He made the mistake of leaving one of Red’s hands free, and Red predictably goes straight for the shoulder where Sans’s attack hit Edge two days ago. Unfortunately for Red, Edge heals too quickly for the pain to be truly disabling. He takes the jab without flinching and stands, hauling Red off his feet by the collar. Red chokes but doesn’t stop fighting, turning Edge’s soul blue and trying to drop him to his knees as if Edge can’t bear up under a little extra gravity, kicking and clawing at him. It’s scratch damage, but it adds up as Edge drags him into the bedroom. 

(Red doesn’t stab him or to summon a blaster. Nothing that would inflict KR. He’s still holding back.)

Red’s not Edge, who spars with Undyne all the time. He’s not used to this kind of physical fighting. By the time they get to the bedroom, a process that takes a while considering that Red keeps trying to bounce him off the walls with every step, his brother’s attacks are getting sloppy and wild. When Edge drops him on the bed, Red uses the fact that Edge’s soul is still blue to shove him away. Edge staggers back a step before he compensates for the change in gravity, but Red doesn’t take advantage of his stumble to try to bolt or throw some last desperate attack. He only lays there, gasping for air after long minutes of being choked.

“Safeword?” Edge asks, checking in.

“Fuck you,” Red rasps.

Well, that lacks the elegance of the traditional stoplight system, but it’ll work. None too gently, Edge grabs hold of him and rolls him over onto his front. Red kicks him a few times for his trouble, but the effort seem half-hearted at best. They’re both breathing faster. The bones of Edge’s pelvis are hot with the magic that wants to form.

When he takes hold of Red’s wrist, dragging it up towards the cuffs attached to the headboard, Red finds some last burst of energy and tries to jerk free. Edge grabs him by the back of the neck, shoves his face into the mattress, and gets on the bed, kneeling over Red’s pelvis to hold him down.

“Behave,” Edge tells him. 

Red snarls, a vicious noise that falters when Edge grinds his hips against him. Edge uses the distraction to restrain him, unsurprised when Red immediately yanks against the cuffs. It’s what he always does, less a struggle to be free than simply needing the reassurance that they’ll hold. He still tries to pull out of Edge’s grip when Edge goes to attach the other cuff, but his resistance seems rote. It stops entirely when the cuff closes; Red goes limp, panting and exhausted. Edge lets up the pressure to let him breathe, and Red doesn’t even curse at him. He pushes back against Edge’s hips in silent demand, and Edge obliges him, grinding viciously against the soft, warm curve of his ass.

“Don’t move,” Edge says. For a wonder, Red listens and goes still. Edge forms an attack, its edge razor sharp, and begins to cut through Red’s shirt. It’s cheap, scratchy and unadorned, not one of Red’s favorites. Edge’ll buy him a new one, preferably something softer.

Soon enough, Red’s back and shoulders are bare. There’s a fine sheen of sweat on his bones, and they’re flushed with anticipation and adrenaline. His soul is burning brighter at the broken places. He’s lovely. A bare canvas.

Edge reaches over and opens the drawer on the bedside table. Hearing it, knowing what tools Edge keeps there, Red tenses beneath him and turns his head to look at what Edge is going to use to hurt him. When he sees the flogger, its heavy black leather and knotted falls, his breath shudders out. They’ve used it before, once or twice; Edge doesn’t try out new things when Red is like this. Apparently it made an impression.

A sense of calm purpose is settling over Edge, warm and heavy. This requires as much focus as healing Red’s soul, though it takes a different kind of intent, the intent to hurt but not to harm. He says, “Is this what you want?”

He always asks. As much as he’s usually willing to trust that Red would use his safeword, he doesn’t fuck around when it comes to hurting him like this. It’s the reason he doesn’t do it as punishment. He won’t cross the line into hurting Red in ways he doesn’t want to be hurt.

Red’s fingers flex in the cuffs. He nods. When Edge doesn’t move, he says, his voice almost too low to hear, “Yeah.”

“You’re going to count them for me,” Edge says. With Red facedown on the bed, he needs some way to keep track of his mental state, and the ritual of it helps put them both in the right headspace.

Red mutters, “You and your cliche bullsh--”

The flogger hits him on the left shoulder, the crack of the leather loud in the bedroom. Red loses his words in a startled yelp. The place where Edge struck is already going scarlet, painful-looking against white bone.

Edge has been fucking his brother for three years now, and hurting him for almost as long. It wasn’t until they got to the surface that he discovered this, after testing it first on himself to be sure and then, cautiously, on Red. There is a difference between flogging soft, yielding magic and bare bone. The former hurts, yes, but it’s a kinder pain. Striking bare bone _burns_ , intense and blinding, as if the nerves were set on fire.

“One,” Red gasps, some of that wire tension already easing out of him.

Edge rewards him with another strike on the opposite shoulder, making Red jerk beneath him. When Edge rakes his fingers across the rising welts, Red clutches at the sheets and says, “Two. Don’t stop.”

“I’ve barely started,” Edge says. He hits Red a third time, over the first place that he struck, and then a fourth time right on the heels of it, before Red has a chance to do more than curse fluently into the bedsheets. He gives Red a moment before prompting him. “Brother.”

“Three,” Red says, his voice more or less even, still trying to hang onto his composure. Afraid to lose it, perhaps. Afraid that Edge might stop if he does. “Four.”

Telling Red he hasn’t gone soft in the ways that matter would be just words. Edge isn’t Red or Sans, as much as he adores them; he prefers to speak with actions. He runs his fingers of his non-dominant hand (an inadvertent pun Sans would no doubt appreciate) over Red’s shoulders. The bones are hot to the touch and, judging from the way Red’s breath catches, painfully tender. Edge says with mocking solicitousness, “Does it hurt?”

Red laughs, a disbelieving sound. “Yes, it goddamn hurts!”

“Good,” Edge says, and leans on the fresh welts. Whether Red’s whimper is about the pain or about the fact that he can feel Edge hard against his pelvis, Edge doesn’t know.

Moving beneath him as if he’s not sure whether he wants to get away from the pain or push back into it, Red says, “Fuck, please--” 

Edge takes his weight off Red’s bruises, and Red sucks in a ragged breath in relief or protest or both. That breath sobs out when the flogger lashes across his ribs.

“Five,” Red says, the edges of the word a little blurry.

They’re getting there.

The first five were the warm-up. For the next, Edge hits Red hard enough to drive the breath from him each time. It must be agony, every strike like being branded. Edge only pauses long enough between them for Red to gasp out a number, refusing to give him time to regain his equilibrium.

At ten, Red cries out. Edge lowers the flogger, checking him. Red’s undamaged but definitely struggling, his ribs rising and falling in unsteady breaths. From years of huddling together in shithole alleys, starving and cold, Edge knows the way his brother sounds when he’s trying not to cry.

After several long seconds, Red slurs, “Ten.”

Edge drags the falls of the flogger across Red’s shoulders, making him shudder. His brother’s soul is burning bright, casting shadows around the room. There’s no characteristic heat beneath Edge like Red summoned his magic; he’s not getting off on the pain right now. That’s not the point.

Damned if Edge isn’t hard and wanting, which is also not the point.

“You don’t need to count,” Edge tells him. “Just take it.”

He hits Red again, aiming at the worst of the welts. Red doesn’t cry out this time, but his breathing is uncontrolled, on the verge of breaking. The twelfth strike, harder than the rest, finally wrenches a sob from Red’s throat. It sounds more painful than being beaten. 

Edge drops the flogger beside Red and rests his hand on the back of Red’s neck, over the collar. That steadying touch has to take the place of the praise he’s not sure Red can accept right now. He’s more than earned it, but Edge doesn’t want to force kindness on him when he’s too fucked up to resist. Red’s shoulders are shaking, but even now, his crying is almost silent.

Quietly, Edge says, “Three more. Can you do that?”

Red’s breath hitches. Edge waits a good forty-five seconds, giving Red an opportunity to gather his scattered wits and use the safeword. Fuck knows most people, including Edge, wouldn't voluntarily take this much pain. Instead, he feels Red nod, pressing back into his touch.

Fuck, Edge wants to tell him he’s good. To praise his strength, to say that he looks beautiful, to tell him he’s so grateful for his trust. Maybe one day, he can say all of that without it scaring his brother more than simple pain.

Edge takes his hand away and picks the flogger back up. The angry color of Red’s shoulders is already darkening to sullen purple-red bruises in places, the kind that will ache for days. The last three strikes are not gentle, the impact rocking Red’s body, but he spreads them out and avoids the worst of the bruises. Red takes them quietly until the third and last, when he moans low in his throat with a desperation that makes Edge’s cock throb in his pants.

Tossing a flogger off the side of the bed is no way to treat a tool, but Edge does so anyway. His attention is only for Red, who is limp as a puppet with his strings cut. All the tension that’s been winding tighter for days has visibly relaxed. The crying jag seems to have passed, and his breathing is deep and easy.

Edge undoes the cuffs, checking Red’s wrists for damage. The cuffs are padded, but it doesn’t hurt to be sure. Red’s wrists aren’t even bruised. He doesn’t resist, slack in Edge’s grip. It’s entirely possible that he’s passed out. So long as his breathing stays steady and unlabored, that’s fine. It’s not the first time.

Careful not to jostle him, Edge climbs off Red and sits beside him on the bed. He checks Red and finds that his HP is still at 5. Good. With that peace of mind, he takes a moment to assess the marks on Red’s back and whether there are any cracks in his ribs or scapulae. There are none that he can see. He’s pleased with his work.

Red stirs and mumbles, his voice thick, “Paps?”

“I’m here,” Edge says, putting a hand on the small of Red’s back to ground him.

Satisfied with that, Red subsides for another few minutes. At some point, Edge is going to have to get Red into the shower to rinse the sweat off both of them, but for now, he lets Red drift in comfortable quiet. He likes seeing his brother at peace too much to break it.

Eventually, Red says, “Y’didn’t…” With an effort that looks painful, he tries to roll onto his side and winces.

It’s not difficult to finish the rest of that sentence. “It’s fine,” Edge says, despite the fact that his magic is still throbbing dully in time with his pulse. “Rest.”

Red attempts to roll over again and actually makes it that time. Admittedly, Edge helps. Red blinks at him, bleary-eyed and a little out of it, his face smeared with drying tears. He’s clumsy as he reaches out to touch Edge’s pelvis. His fingers graze Edge’s cock through the thin material of his workout pants and Edge hisses softly, trying to summon the will to catch Red’s wrist and stop him.

Sensing weakness, Red coaxes, “Let me.”

His brother is a goddamn menace; Edge folds with embarrassing swiftness. He helps Red take his cock out, and the weary smugness of Red’s grin when he sees how hard Edge is for him could probably power a small city. The way Red is just holding him has the pleasure drawing tight, and Edge pushes it down because if he comes at the first idle touch, Red will never let him hear the end of it.

Red pauses for a moment to lick his palm, then curls his fingers around Edge’s dick and begins to jerk him off. It’s slow but purposeful, using all his familiarity with what Edge likes. Edge exhales, gripping the sheets as he tries not to thrust into Red’s hand.

There’s a thin line between not wanting to make Red work too hard and assuaging his own pride by trying not to come within a span of seconds. Either way, it’s not long by Edge’s exacting standards before Red asks almost idly, “You close?”

“Yes,” Edge says tightly.

Red looks up at him, his eyes half-lidded and sly. “Good. Come on me.”

It’s so unapologetically crude. Edge shudders and curls his fingers around Red’s to guide him to move a little faster. Only another few strokes, the sound of it filthy, and then Edge is coming in scarlet streaks on Red’s ribs. The orgasm is hard enough to shake him, leaving him shivering and weak like a fever just broke.

“Yeah,” Red sighs, dreamy and pleased.

The receding tide of orgasm begins to verge into overstimulation. Gently, Edge takes Red’s wrist and moves his hand away from his dick.

“Do you want--?” Edge begins.

“I’m good.” Red stretches, a tentative motion, and makes a noise that’s half laugh and half groan. “Fuck, you really did a number on me.”

Edge touches one of the streaks of scarlet come, rubbing it into the bone. “Several numbers, I imagine. Are you ready to get up and take a shower?”

“Not yet,” Red decides after a moment’s consideration. “Lay down. You’re killing my neck.”

Carefully, he stretches out beside Red on the bed, leaving a little space between them. “There,” he says, less sardonic than he means to be. “Is that better?”

“Yeah.” Red closes his eyes and says ruefully, “Shame Sansy ain’t here in the middle.”

That does provide plausible deniability. A convenient buffer between them, allowing them intimacy without triggering Red’s anxiety. Edge’s fingers itch to touch his brother, but Red has been pushing his own limits so hard in the last few weeks. Red can’t be the only one expected to bend.

Glad that Red can’t see that his hands are curled into fists at his side, Edge says, “In our bed in general, yes. I’m not sure he’d want to be here for this in particular.”

Red’s grin quirks at the corner. “I dunno. He might surprise you.”

“He does that,” Edge agrees.

A few moments of quiet pass as Edge studies the dark circles beneath Red’s eyes. Part of him wants to forget the shower and just let Red sleep, but he desperately needs to rinse off the sweat from his run (it _itches_ ) and he doesn’t want to leave Red alone.

Red takes a deep, slow breath, as if bracing himself for something. Then he scoots forward with a grunt of pain, closing the gap between their bodies, and leans his brow against Edge’s shoulder. Edge holds very still.

“Shut up,” Red says, muffled into his shirt.

“All right,” Edge says warily.

“I just need a minute.”

“That’s fine.” Edge doesn’t put his arms around Red; he doesn’t want to jar his shoulders or make him feel trapped. His soul feels warm and full, beating heavily in his chest. “We have time.”

***

The phone rings. Sans picks up on the second ring and says like he wasn’t pacing the living room and waiting for this call, “Dustbusters. If you meet your doom, we’re there with a broom.”

There’s a long moment of silence before Edge says, “You’ve been spending too much time with my brother.”

He sounds tired but okay. Relieved, Sans sinks back into the couch cushions. “I was like this before he ever showed up. How is he?”

“Fine. He’s sleeping now.”

“Good.” That’s an improvement, considering how strung out Red looked the last time Sans saw him. “How’re you doing?”

A pause, like Edge isn’t used to people asking him that question. “Also fine.”

Papyrus pokes his head out of the steamy bathroom, probably because he heard the phone ring. He’s been waiting for this call about as anxiously as Sans. He raises his brows almost to the towel he’s got wrapped around his head, and Sans gives him a thumbs up. Papyrus exhales, his shoulders slumping in dramatic relief, and ducks back in. He’s got a kink party to get primped up for tonight, which is a sentence Sans never really thought he’d think but whatever. Who is he to judge about kinky bullshit these days?

At some point when he wasn’t paying attention, his hand went to the collar. That happens a lot. Rubbing the leather with his thumb, Sans asks, “You need anything? I could bring over some grub and leave it on the doorstep, if you want.”

“Quite a trip to make just to turn right around and go home.”

“It’s cool. I want an excuse to get out of here before Paps puts on leather pants and I have to ritually blind myself.”

“I’ll have you know he looks excellent in them.”

Sure, which is a large part of the problem. It’ll ruin any further appreciation of Edge’s pelvis in those tight, tight pants. “Nope, sorry. I can’t hear you. My brain just won’t retain that kind of information. So you hungry or what? I can call and have somebody deliver something, but I think you might not want any rando knocking on your door right now. Just this rando.”

There’s a sleepy, questioning murmur of words in the background of the call. 

A rustle as Edge covers the phone. More gently than Sans has ever heard Edge speak to his brother, he says, “It’s Sans.” 

Red says something else, his voice tired and uncharacteristically soft. The lurch of protective fondness Sans feels takes him off guard, sharp as a knife in the soul.

Edge says, “He wants to bring food over. Is that all right with you?”

Sans definitely hears Red say, sounding much more awake, “Fuck yeah, it is.”

“That would be lovely,” Edge tells Sans. “I can pay for the cab.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Sans says. Some of the pressure of worrying about cash has eased off now that he’s got the new job. Springing for one cab ride won’t kill him. No way the food would still be hot if he took the bus. “Be there in twenty minutes.”

So he goes to pick up an order at Grillby’s, pausing just long enough to tell Papyrus where he’s headed and to have fun at the sadism shindig. (Thankfully, the leather pants are still safely folded on the bathroom counter, several feet away from Papyrus’s pelvis.) It’s a little more than twenty minutes on account of traffic when the cab pulls up in front of Edge and Red’s house. More than long enough for Sans to sit in the back of the cab and wonder what the fuck he thinks he’s doing.

Here he is, with a collar around his wrist, getting ready to bring his fuckbuddy and his fuckbuddy’s dom/brother a burger after an intense, kinky scene, and oh, by the way, the burger means _I’d kill someone for you._ His life really jumped the tracks at some point.

“Are you getting out, buddy?” asks the cab driver, jerking him back to reality. “Take your time, but the meter’s running.”

“Then you better catch it,” Sans says. She gives him a flat, unimpressed look. “Ouch, tough crowd. Hang out a minute, wouldja? This might be a round trip.”

She pops her gum. “Whatever. If you’re not back in two minutes, you gotta call another cab.”

Sans really misses the River Person. He could use a free ride and a dose of cryptic bullshit right about now. He hands the driver a frankly obscene amount of cash and then climbs out of the cab. 

It’s drizzling, a cold autumn rain that threatens to turn into a downpour within a second’s notice. This whole weather thing is highly overrated. Give him the underground, where he knew what to expect. Hotland: hot. Snowdin: snow. But no, instead he has to abandon his tentative plan to just put the food on the doorstep, ring the doorbell and bail like a coward. He fumbles for his keys and unlocks the door.

They’re in the living room. Red is curled up under a blanket with his head on Edge’s lap, letting Edge pet his skull. He looks like hell, hollow-eyed from lack of sleep and crying. He doesn’t even bother opening his eyes when the door opens. Edge doesn’t look much better off, although you’d have to know him well to recognize it. They both seem exhausted but at peace, like the storm passed over, trashed the town, and left them standing.

Before the twinge of uncertainty Sans feels over whether he should’ve come can blossom into actual doubts, Edge gives him an almost-smile of tired welcome that feels like a punch in the chest. Awkwardly, Sans shakes the bags. “Hey. Food.”

“Thank you, Sans,” Edge says.

Sans eyes Red, who still shows no sign of stirring but is not at all asleep, and then signs to Edge, _he okay?_

Edge nods. He doesn’t seem concerned. Maybe Red usually gets like this afterwards. The rhythm of his hand stroking Red’s skull never falters, steady and lulling.

Sans signs, _you okay?_

His expression softening, Edge gives a second nod. The tension that’s been lurking since Edge called to cancel finally eases up enough to let Sans take a deep breath. They’re okay.

Like he’s operating on a time lag, Red finally sticks a hand out from under the blanket. When Sans tries to hand over the food, since he’s probably just here to play delivery boy, Red grabs his wrist instead and says, his voice burred and fucked out, “C’mere.”

At least he’s talking. Sans was getting more worried the longer he kept his mouth shut. When Red draws his feet up, making room at the end of the couch, Sans looks at Edge for a second opinion. _Do you want me here? Is this okay?_

“Yes,” Edge says, answering him out loud. “Stay a while. It’s pouring.”

Now that Sans listens, he can hear the rain drumming on the roof. Apparently the sky opened up. He grins. “Well, hell, I better stick around, then. I might melt.”

He sits down. A moment later, Red pushes himself upright. The process takes some effort and looks a little painful. Sans starts to reach out to try to help and ends up with his hands just hovering, not sure of what’s safe to touch.

The blanket slides off Red’s shoulders. He’s naked to the waist underneath it, and the vivid marks across his shoulders and ribs are a red and purple roadmap of where it’s definitely _not_ safe for Sans to put his hands. They’re not burns, he’s patched too many burns to mistake them for anything else, and they’re not scratches. Something else. A belt, maybe?

His first reaction to those bruises probably shouldn’t be to wonder what made them. He reaches for the scandalized horror that he would’ve felt a few months ago, but it slips through his fingers. Hard to be horrified when Red looks better than he has in days. Red needs this, and Sans getting all judgmental and self-righteous right now would be a serious dick move. All he can manage is being a little horrified that he’s not horrified. Meta horrified.

He can see that Edge is tense, bracing for his reaction. Glaring at Sans like he’s daring him to say a goddamn word, Red tries to grab for the blanket and hisses softly because the motion was too sharp.

“Don’t worry about it for a second,” Sans says, trying to give Edge a look over Red’s shoulder that conveys _I’m not going to be a dick about this, I swear._ “Where are you going?”

“Your lap, asshole,” Red says.

“Okay.” Sans puts his hands on Red’s hips to steady him, putting a little more pressure on when Red doesn’t wince. He’s not sure Red needs the help, but it makes _him_ feel better, anyway. “My lap’s free to a good home. I didn’t even put it up on Craigslist yet.”

“Lucky me,” Red says. It’s pretty weak as snark goes, but Sans is willing to grade on a curve.

Red climbs on Sans’s lap and gets himself settled. The squirming does wonders for Sans’s stupid libido, which he tries very hard (ha) to ignore. Once Red’s comfortable, or at least as comfortable as he’s going to get right now, Sans asks Edge, “Can I have the blanket?”

Edge holds it out to him, still looking a little wary. Considering Sans’s reaction when he caught Red and Edge kissing, he probably deserves that. He awkwardly pats Edge’s hand before taking the blanket. He can feel Edge staring at him as he wraps it around Red. He vaguely remembers something from the articles about aftercare saying that they should keep Red warm.

“This is the part where if I was a total dick, I’d take you by the chin and stare creepily at your face while I asked you how you were doing,” Sans says to Red.

“‘M not that out of it. Shoulda seen me right after.” Red nuzzles Sans’s shoulder and immediately puts the lie to that _not that out of it_ thing by adding, “Maybe next time.”

No. If Red were really out of it, he wouldn’t sound that deliberately casual. He’s a little fuzzy on the edges, but the offer is genuine. Sans didn’t freak out at the sight of bruises, and so he’s invited to the kink party.

Sans’s instinctive reaction is to protest that no, he’s vanilla, he’s _normal_. Okay, so he saw the marks on his shoulders and his first thought was to wonder what made them. So there was that first time, before Edge added the caveat that Sans shouldn’t hurt Red, that he’d gripped Red’s sternum and squeezed a little. And that time he shoved Red’s face into the mattress just to feel him shudder and go lax under his grip. And the way his soul feels molten when Red grabs him by the throat or pins his wrists against the bed. And the fact that he offered Red a blank check, knowing things would get weird. And the part where he’s repeatedly gone into subspace and is starting to like it and is wearing a fucking collar right this second--

Fuck. Okay, fine, he might conceivably have to wrangle with the idea that he’s more like Red than he thought. Maybe. Possibly.

Goddamn, he’s stupid about this shit.

“I dunno how Edge would feel about an audience,” Sans says, fussing with the blanket around Red’s shoulders. It’s not an artful evasion, but he needs a little time to consider this before making a call one way or the other.

“If he wants you there,” Edge says. When Sans looks over, Edge is considering him as if from a new angle, looking surprised and thoughtful. “If you want to be there. On one of his good days, you could be allowed, perhaps.”

There’s a subtle emphasis on the word _you_ that says Edge would destroy anyone else who asked to watch him hurt Red. It says something about how much Edge trusts him, which is both warm and fuzzy inducing and fucking terrifying.

“We’ll talk about it later,” Sans says to Red. “You hungry? You want the remote?”

Red chuckles. “He just hit me with a flogger a couple times, sweetheart. I’m not dying.”

A flogger. Close enough to a belt, Sans guesses. Points for him for correctly identifying implements. What a great party trick. “Look, you have an opportunity here to milk my sympathy for all its worth. Better use it.”

Red kisses Sans’s throat, his breath hot on Sans’s spine, and murmurs too low for Edge to hear, “Is that so? Then how about you suck me off?”

The mental image hits Sans like a brick to the head: gently repositioning Red to Edge’s lap and then sinking to his knees, Red moaning low in his throat as Sans sucks him, Edge watching them both and maybe stroking the top of Sans’s skull like he did Red, telling him he’s good…

His grip tightens on Red’s hipbone. After a long couple moments in which Sans’s brain is only giving him the blue screen of death, Red sighs and says at a normal volume and with real regret, “On second thought, I’m too tired to be horny.”

Appalled, Sans says, “You _are_ dying.”

Edge snorts. “He knows you so well, brother.”

Apparently it hurts too much to shrug, but Red’s expression is the spiritual equivalent. “Sorry to leave you hanging, Sansy.”

“I’ll live,” Sans says, although his body is insisting that Red squirming on his lap = happy fun time. “You want fries instead? They’re still warm.”

“Fuck yes,” Red says with great feeling. “I’m starving.”

So Sans passes him the bag. It’s not until he does that he starts to doubt. Does it count as offering food if he already gave Red and Edge juiceboxes? Does it change things that this is the first time he actually understands the weight of what he’s doing? Edge refused to offer Sans food when he was in subspace; is Red clear-headed enough for this? Should Sans be doing this right in front of Edge?

Welp. He brought the food, so it’s a little late now to tell Red he can’t have it after all. No takesies backsies.

He fishes the fries out of the bag and hands them to Red. Red takes them, and without quite realizing it until it’s already done, Sans shifts so he can watch Red take the first bite like he hasn’t seen Red eat Grillby’s fries a hundred times. Of course Red notices, and his grin is sharp and sly.

As Red eats the fry, Sans doesn’t think he gets the same kind of sexual thrill as Edge and Red, but there’s definitely something satisfying about it. Red probably didn’t eat today, and Sans is fixing it. A small problem of the universe, resolved.

Red gratuitously licks the salt off his fingers and says, “Don’t tell that fucker Grillby, but it’s better than home.”

Maybe praising the food offering, even in a weird Red kind of way, is just part of the ritual. Sans grins, his own weird kind of way of saying _glad you like it_. “Dude, Grillby’s never done anything to you.”

“I don’t like his face,” Red says. “Are you eating?”

Sans considers pointing out that Grillby technically doesn’t have a face, but the fact that Red can’t easily read his expressions probably doesn’t help, considering how justifiably paranoid Red is. He glances at Edge, double-checking that he’s not taking offense, and finds Edge looking at them with deep, feral satisfaction in his eyes. It's like he’s watching them fuck.

Wow. Okay. That’s distressingly hot. Averting his eyes, Sans says, “I already ate. I’m good.”

“Aw, I wanted you to re-enact the pancake porno,” Red says.

Ignoring him in self-defense, Sans says, “We can do the whole food offering shuffle if you want, edgelord. We’ll pretend I found this on the bus. It’s a sketchy bus salad of unknown origin.”

“Salad subterfuge isn’t necessary on my account,” Edge says.

“Welp, then enjoy your salad that I got for you through completely legitimate means,” Sans says. There’s a tight coil of nervousness wrapped around his soul. He knows what Red likes, but he just told Grillby to make the same thing he does for Papyrus. He thinks Edge eats salad? The guy’s had a long fucking day. Maybe that’s not enough. He deserves something better. “I can go get something else if you--”

“I like salad,” Edge says, pulling the takeout container closer as if Sans is going to try to take it away. When Sans holds his hands up in the universal gesture for _dude, I’m not gonna steal your food_ , Edge undoes the container and examines the little thing of salad dressing before apparently finding it acceptable enough to upend it over his rabbit food.

From where he’s resting his head on Sans’s shoulder, Red says, “Yeah, boss, toss his salad.”

“Shut up and eat, brother,” Edge says as he spears the lettuce.

Apparently Red’s feeling all kinds of amiable because he doesn’t bitch back, just snickers and continues with his fries, content to be a voyeur.

Without breaking (intense) eye contact, Edge takes a bite. Considering those sharp teeth, he’s surprisingly delicate about it. There’s no moan of pleasure when he tastes it, which is probably for the best. Sans isn’t sure what he would’ve done. Spontaneously combusted, maybe.

“So what’s the verdict?” Sans blurts out. “I mean, I didn’t, y’know, make it myself or anything. It’s probably a copout as far as these things go. Tori’s been teaching me how to make pies, so if you want a do-over--”

“Dude, give him a second to chew it,” Red says. “He’s too good to talk with his mouth full like the rest of us. Are you seriously offering pie? ‘Cause I want pie. Make me pie.”

“3.14 of them, if you want,” Sans says.

“Nice,” Red says. “Maybe just one, though. Pies always seem to take forever to finish.”

That deserves a fistbump. Sans offers him one. Red accepts.

Finally, Edge swallows, wipes his mouth with a napkin (because he’s high class like that) and says to Sans, “It’s good. Thank you.”

The simple praise and the look in Edge’s eyes makes warmth curls around Sans’s soul like he took a shot, spreading through his system and heating him up. He clears his throat and looks away. “Cool.”

Rubbing his cheek on Sans’s shoulder like an affectionate cat (and probably wiping grease on him at the same time), Red says, “Only thing missing is mustard.”

Sans sighs. “As much as it pains me to say this, there’s some mustard packets in the bag.”

“Aw, you really do like me,” Red says.

“No, I let everybody sit on my lap and eat burgers,” Sans says. “Which is great to listen to right in my ear, let me tell you.”

“I’ll try to do it loud,” Red says. “Put on the TV, wouldja, boss?”

Edge digs out the remote and turns on the Science Channel. It’s one of those shows about human manufacturing processes, which always has some sort of hypnotic effect that leaves Sans desperate to find out how humans make velcro despite never suspecting that he has strong opinions about adhesives one way or the other. It’s one of the few shows he and Papyrus can agree on. The perfect thing to doze off to.

Apparently the subliminal suggestion doesn’t work on Red because he says, “Nah. Put on a movie or something.”

The corner of Edge’s mouth quirks. He begins to flip through the channels and finally settles on some sci-fi movie, the schlocky kind where explosions can be heard in space. Then he sets the remote aside to continue his salad.

Okay. Dinner and a movie. Not exactly how Sans planned it, but that’s pretty par for the course when he’s dealing with Red and Edge. He makes himself comfortable, one hand resting on Red’s hip, and settles in to stay for a while.

**Author's Note:**

> Content warnings: Red has that LV meltdown and is generally not in a good headspace. Edge and Red have a consensual scene with the restraints, impact play and crying. It turns out surprisingly fluffy. I think that's all that requires content warnings, but hmu in the comments if I missed anything.
> 
> Because reallyashamed/AshTheRat1 is goddamn amazing, the scene with Sans coming over afterward was greatly inspired by this art: https://twitter.com/AshTheRat1/status/1102369685453062144?s=20


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